THE FORGOTTENROOM (chapter 1)

chapter 1 The Door That Wasn’t There

Efe woke up to the sound of silence.

Not the ordinary kind of silence that filled his one-bedroom apartment at night — this one was heavier, as though the building itself had stopped breathing. His alarm clock was still ticking, faintly, but even that sound seemed muffled, trapped in wool.

When he got out of bed and padded across the cold tiles, something caught his attention immediately.

The hallway was longer.

He froze. He had walked this hall every day for the past three years. It was only four steps from his bedroom to the kitchen door. Tonight, it stretched—just enough to make his stomach twist. And halfway down that too-long corridor was something impossible.

A door.

Wooden, dark, with an iron knob that looked older than the building itself.

He whispered out loud, as though hearing his own voice would anchor him:

“That door wasn’t there yesterday.”

But the more he stared at it, the more his mind betrayed him. Images flickered in his memory — a door opening onto a study, a door that led to a storage closet, a door he had always meant to repair. Each version overlapped and contradicted the other until he could no longer tell what was real.

He forced a laugh. “Maybe I’m still dreaming.”

Still, his feet carried him forward.

The closer he got, the more he noticed little details. Scratch marks around the knob. A faint smell — dust, mold, and something sweetly rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun. His hand shook when he reached out and turned the knob.

The door opened without resistance.

The room beyond was dim, lit only by a single naked bulb swaying from the ceiling.

It was wrong.

That was the only word for it.

The proportions of the room felt distorted — like it had been stretched sideways. A small desk stood in one corner, a half-burnt candle on top. Against the far wall, an armchair sat facing away from him, its red upholstery torn open like flesh. On the floor: a child’s stuffed rabbit with one eye missing.

He didn’t own any of these things.

As he stepped inside, the silence grew thicker, pressing against his eardrums. His pulse thundered in the cage of his chest.

Something scratched faintly.

He froze, eyes darting. The sound was coming from the desk.

He approached it slowly, each step feeling like it took a year. On the desk sat a diary — black leather, the edges frayed. He opened it with trembling fingers.

The first page made his blood run cold.

It was his handwriting.

January 3rd.

The room has appeared again. This time I must not let anyone else find it. It takes them. It always takes them.

He flipped faster. Page after page, filled with his scrawl — his thoughts, his fears, his warnings. And yet, he had no memory of writing any of it.

Behind him, the armchair creaked.

Efe spun around, breath caught in his throat. The chair moved slightly, though no one sat in it. Then, slowly, it turned — empty. But the impression of a body was pressed deep into the cushion.

And that was when he noticed the photographs on the wall.

At least a dozen, pinned neatly in rows. All of them showed his apartment. His kitchen. His bedroom. His bathroom. Each one was dated. Each one taken at night.

In the most recent photo, taken just yesterday, he was asleep in his bed — mouth slightly open, hand curled over his chest.

His skin prickled with ice.

The scratching grew louder, behind the walls this time, like nails dragging against the plaster. He backed toward the door, his breath sharp, but the moment he turned to leave — the door was gone.

The wall was seamless.

Panic clawed at him. He pressed his palms against the surface, searched for cracks, seams, anything — but there was nothing. Just blank wall where the exit should be.

And then he heard a whisper, low and close to his ear:

“You’ve always been here.”

His vision blurred. The photographs shifted. In every picture, his face was fading, growing translucent, until he was nothing but a faint blur, a shadow among furniture.

He stumbled back, tripped over the stuffed rabbit, and fell to the floor. The diary lay open beside him. The final page was fresh, ink still wet:

August 21st.

It’s happening again. The room is rewriting me. If someone finds this, remember: I was real once.

The pen rolled from the desk and landed beside his hand.

He hadn’t written that page.

Not yet.

⚡️ End of Chapter 1.

CHAPTER 2